


Not Your Average Sunday

by mrs_d



Series: Songs for the Morning [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (don't ask), Humor, M/M, Mission Sex, Mostly Gen, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Robo Cap, Semi-Public Sex, Troll Steve Rogers, aggressively progressive Steve Rogers, some porn, uniform sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We had a brunch date, you son of a bitch.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Average Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> On [Breakfast in Bed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5648950), UpAllNightToGetBucky22 commented: "Can I request post mission sex in public? But like, hidden away and not gonna get caught, disabled comms, just can't wait any longer desperate," to which I replied with a hearty HELLZ YEAH. As I thought about it more, I realized I'd not yet written uniform sex for these two, and that was simply unacceptable.
> 
> The fic kind of got away from me and became completely self-indulgent and silly (Cap may or may not be venting some of my personal feelings here...), but hopefully it'll scratch some itches. Thanks (as ever) for reading & commenting, and if anyone else has any ideas/requests, I'm happy to chat here or on [Tumblr](http://mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com/).

Sam was flying towards the coordinates that Steve had given him when his wings and goggles shorted out without warning. For a split-second, it was like something out of a nightmare, the horizon tilting and the ground rushing up, but then Sam’s body reacted like he’d trained it to: splaying his limbs to slow his descent, pulling the emergency release to sever the wings and let out the chute.

The white cloth bloomed in his peripheral vision, and Sam shifted in the air again, directing himself towards the street rather than a roof to give himself more time to slow down. The landing was still going to hurt, unless he could find something a little more yielding than concrete, so he aimed for a heap of garbage bags and braced for impact.

Rotten air puffed out when he landed, and he was fairly certain that a couple of bags on the bottom of the pile burst, but he wasn’t dead, no bones were broken, and he didn’t seem to be covered in goo, so Sam called that a big win, considering that he just fell out of the sky.

He lay there in the garbage for a minute, processing what had just happened. It had to have been an electromagnetic pulse. Nothing else could have killed all his tech at once like that. Which meant—

“Rhodes!” Sam shouted into his communicator. Surely Stark had designed his best friend’s armor to resist an EMP, right? But there was no answer. “Maximoff?” he tried. “Romanov? Rogers!” 

There was nobody on the line, so he switched frequencies, he tried every channel, even the private one that he and Steve had set up after their adventure fighting aliens in Manhattan. But the communicator stayed silent in his ear.

“Shit,” he muttered, and he started to clamor out of his makeshift LZ.

The Avengers had been spread out, mopping up the last of the robots and keeping people calm, stopping looters and would-be criminals, so Sam was on his own. All he could do was to try and get to Steve and hope that the rest of the team was all right.

Sam headed for the main road to get his bearings, then took off in the right direction. The NJPD had done a good job of clearing the streets, so Sam didn’t encounter anything more dangerous than a parked car en route. It took him three times as long to reach his destination on foot, but finally, he rounded the last corner, and there, standing stock-still at the end of a narrow, dingy alley, in front of a plain wooden door, was Steve.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and ran straight to him, wrapping him up in his arms. “Man, it’s good to see you,” he said into the hard blue leather of Steve’s shoulder.

Steve didn’t reply or hug Sam back, though, so Sam stepped away and took in Steve’s appearance. His eyes were glassy, and he blinked slowly before cocking his head to the side.

“What are you. Doing here. Falcon?” he asked, in a stilted voice that didn’t sound like his own.

“Falcon?” Sam repeated. Steve never called him that — well, except for that one time in bed.

“Yes,” came a static-clogged voice from behind Steve. Sam peered over Steve’s shoulder to see an old-fashioned intercom beside the door, under a white security camera. “What _are_ you doing here, Falcon?”

Sam looked to Steve, but there was no change in his bland expression. “Who are you?” he asked warily.

“Oh, don’t ask it that,” the intercom scolded. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to deal with a robot having an existential crisis?”

“Robot?”

“Is there an echo in this alley? Cap, attack,” the intercom voice ordered.

Sam leapt back, adopting a fighting stance, but Steve — no, Not-Steve — didn’t move.

“Dammit,” said the intercom. “Stupid thing went into standby mode.”

Sam raised his eyebrows in disbelief as he dropped his arms to his sides. “Really?” he commented. “That’s some toy you got here. What’d you do with the real thing?”

There was a pause, and the man on the other side of the intercom seemed a little short of breath when he next spoke. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Actually, yeah,” Sam replied. “Clearly, somebody’s got a little crush.”

“Do not,” said the intercom, sounding very much like a five-year-old.

“Uh huh,” Sam said.

He circled Fake Cap, examining the intricate details of the uniform as he removed its pistol and took Steve’s shield off its back. He held the gun in his right hand and hefted the shield. It felt surprisingly good on his left arm — like it belonged there, or it could.

“Kind of stupid to leave these weapons lying around,” he remarked. “But I guess you just had to have the complete look, huh? All the Captain America accessories?”

“No, don’t—” the intercom protested, but Sam batted Not-Steve aside with the shield and felt a confusing sense of satisfaction when its head popped off and scattered sparks across the pavement.

“You going to let me in, so we can finish this?” Sam asked the intercom nonchalantly. “Because I have a funny feeling you’ve got the real-life version of my boyfriend in there, and I’d kind of like him back.”

“Your— what?”

Sam smirked, pleased that he’d chosen the right word to get under this guy’s skin. “You heard me. Now, do I have to break down this door, or what?”

“Captain America’s not gay,” the man protested.

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Sam replied easily.

He prepared to hit the lock with Steve’s shield, but suddenly his goggles lit up again, and his comm array crackled to life.

“Falcon, come in,” cried Rhodes in his ear. “Sam, are you there? Are you all right?”

“I’m here,” he answered, uploading his coordinates. “I’m fine.”

“Who are you talking to?” the intercom demanded. Sam ignored it completely. 

“We are en route,” Wanda affirmed.

“Suit’s down, though, so we’ll need twenty minutes,” Rhodey clarified.

“Is Steve with you?” asked Natasha.

“No, but I know where he is,” Sam replied. “He’s with the bad guy.”

He calmly checked the gun that he’d stolen from the robot, and he was surprised, yet not surprised, to find it loaded. He raised it and shot twice, first taking out the camera and then the intercom, cutting off a whiny protest.

“You should probably wait for back-up,” Rhodes cautioned.

“No-go,” said Sam. “For all I know he’s trying to clone Cap in there. I’m going in.”

He raised the shield to hit the doorknob with the vibranium edge the way he’d seen Steve do a hundred times. Unfortunately, Steve was too good at making things look easy; Sam missed entirely, and the shield clanged and wobbled on his arm.

“We’ll join you as soon as we can, then,” Natasha said, and Sam appreciated the fact that she wasn’t trying to talk him out of it. “Be careful.”

“Always am,” Sam assured her.

After five attempts, Sam finally broke the lock. He stepped through the door and found himself in a dim and musty storage room, its floor-to-ceiling shelves crowded with shoe boxes. Sam scanned quickly for more AIs and found none — clearly the robot-maker had thought his best toy would be enough to protect him — then he turned at a sound and saw a man rushing at him with a gun. Sam ducked and raised the shield in time, but the shot landed nowhere near him.

“Dammit,” the man said, and Sam recognized his voice from the intercom.

He crept behind a shelf while the shooter was distracted and tossed an empty shoe box. The shooter turned towards the noise and fired again, exploding a bag of tissue paper sitting a full three feet away from where the box had landed.

Sam kept up this game until he was behind the shooter, then he pressed the muzzle of his own gun to the back of the man’s neck.

“Not as easy as it seems, is it?” he said conversationally.

“Yeah. The recoil surprised me,” the bad guy commented, like he thought maybe Sam would give him another chance.

“Whatever you say, John Wayne,” Sam said dryly. “Clearly you’re not going to hurt me with that thing, so why don’t you give it here?”

The man held up his hands and didn’t resist as Sam took the weapon and slapped restraints on his wrists.

“I take it you’re our robot-maker?” Sam asked.

“Call me... Professor Labyrinth,” the man declared dramatically.

“No,” said Sam. “Now tell me where you stashed my partner.”

 “Uh—”

“Tall guy, blond hair, looks good in blue?” Sam prompted.

“In here, Sam,” came Steve’s faint voice.

Sam shoved at the so-called professor’s back, forcing him towards an adjacent room, where he found Steve enclosed in some kind of translucent box. It was ten feet tall, with air vents along the top edge, and a gold-plated sign that read CAPTAIN AMERICA.

“Adamantium-enhanced,” Professor Dumbass said smugly. “Cool, right? I bought it online. Not even Wolverine could break out.”

“Oh, you’re a Wolverine fan,” Sam muttered. “Never would have guessed.”

“Sam,” Steve said, his voice sounding tinny. “The back wall is a door. There’s some kind of control panel with a code lock.”

Sam nodded, but he didn’t let go of the bad guy, his eyes taking in the rest of the room. Along the walls, there were other cases, each labelled with the name of an Avenger. Except—

“What the fuck?” Sam said out loud. “Where’s mine? And Rhodey’s?”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” Steve grumbled.

Shaking his head, Sam removed the professor’s restraints, none too gently. “Enter the code, _bub_ ,” he instructed, shoving at his back.

“Okay, all right, fine,” Professor Loser-Face grumbled, like a teenager being forced to clean his room. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“Seriously?” Sam shoved at him again, this time with the shield. “You’re trying to capture the Avengers, or the white ones anyway; your robots closed off six streets; and your EMP killed all wireless communication in a ten-block radius. Not to mention, you knocked me out of the goddamned sky!”

“Jesus, Sam. Are you all right?” Steve demanded.

“I’m good, baby,” Sam answered distractedly. “Made an emergency landing in a trash heap; the worst I got out of it is a rotten smell.”

“You’re lucky,” Steve growled at the professor.

The bad guy muttered something under his breath that Sam didn’t catch, though Steve must have heard it because his eyes flashed, and the instant the glass case popped open, he surged out, grabbed the guy by the throat, and hit him, not knocking him unconscious but dazing him. Professor Moron slumped backwards; Steve caught him and spun, all but flinging the guy into the glass case and slamming the door behind him.

“What a piece of work,” Sam muttered, shaking his head.

Before he knew what was happening, Steve had rushed him, pinning him against the glass case, kissing him roughly. Sam grunted in surprise when Steve’s tongue shoved its way between his lips. The bulk of the wing pack put some space between his lower back and the glass case, which Steve took full advantage of, gripping Sam’s ass and kneading it with both hands. Sam went from confused to fully on board, moaning a little into Steve’s mouth, kissing back as best he could with a shield on his arm and a gun in his hand.

“Falcon?” Rhodes said suddenly into Sam’s ear.

No offence to Rhodey, but it was one of the least sexy things Sam could hear at that moment. Steve clearly agreed, because he lowered his mouth to Sam’s neck and reached up to take the communicators out of both of their ears.

“Don’t worry, we’re fine,” Sam called hastily as Steve threw the hardware aside and then went right back to kissing him.

Desperate to get his hands on Steve, Sam dropped the gun and shook his left arm until the shield slipped off, hitting the floor with a loud crash that they both ignored. He wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through Steve’s hair, but Steve still had his helmet on, for crying out loud, so Sam traced the red and white stripes of his uniform instead and settled on his hips. Steve bucked forward at the contact, making Sam’s back hit the glass box with a clunk, and Sam had to pull away because it was nuts, making out like two horny teenagers like this, considering where they were and who was in the room with them.

“Steve,” he mumbled. “You sure you want to do this now? We got the bad guy here, and I smell like garbage, and—”

“You smell fine,” Steve interrupted, and he palmed Sam’s groin with a smirk. “No armor down here today?”

“No time,” Sam replied, a little breathless as his body reacted to Steve’s familiar touch. “Fighting robots in Jersey, it—” he broke off with a gasp when Steve worked his pants open, and it took him a second to recover. “It, uh, wasn’t on the itinerary today.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Steve agreed. He mouthed at Sam’s ear as he pumped Sam’s rapidly hardening cock, his other hand still working his ass. “We had a brunch date, you son of a bitch.”

Sam tilted his head back, letting chills speed down his spine. “Steve,” he murmured after a moment. “Are you talking to the bad guy?”

“You’re fucking right I am.”

Sam raised his eyebrows — it wasn’t often that Steve cut loose with the soldier’s vocabulary — but he didn’t have a chance to remark on it because Steve pulled back. He raised the tips of his fingers to his mouth, and the sight of Steve’s tongue skirting the edge of his brown fingerless gloves was enough to make Sam’s own mouth water. Steve must have noticed because he drew the process out; Sam was all but panting by the time Steve’s wet fingers circled the tip of his cock, and he groaned out loud at the combination of slick skin and soft leather when Steve finally gripped him again.

With the pleasure of Steve’s hand on his dick and Steve’s lips at his throat, it took Sam a while to realize that the sound he kept hearing was Steve talking, muttering furiously under his breath.

“I am so fucking sick of straight white men and their fucking opinions. Putting me in a fucking museum, telling me who I ought to be, what I ought to do, who I fucking can and cannot love. Treating my guy like he ain’t worth nothing because of the fucking color of his fucking skin. Drives me fucking nuts, Sam.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said weakly.

Steve’s outburst probably deserved a more thoughtful reply, but Sam’s brain was buzzing too hard to think about it. Warmth was pooling at the base of his spine, spreading through the inside of his thighs, his balls were high and tight. He didn’t care where he was anymore, didn’t care about the robot maker behind him, didn’t care about the Avengers who might burst in the door at any second. He needed it, he was almost there, he just needed Steve to—

Steve stopped abruptly, taking his hand away, and Sam practically keened at the lack.

“And you know what else, Sam?” Steve asked him. “I am really fucking sick of New Jersey.”

With that, he pressed his mouth to Sam’s again in a fierce kiss. Sam’s hips rolled forward; the head of his cock brushed the rough fabric of Steve’s uniform pants, and that was it, Sam was coming, coming apart in Steve’s firm, warm hand, sobbing into his lush mouth as Steve jerked him through it.

When the touch got to be too much, he reached down to brush one finger against Steve’s wrist. The tiny signal was all Steve needed to take his hand away. Sam sagged forward, and Steve caught him, lifting him in a casual display of strength that might have got Sam going again if he weren’t already wrung out like a damp rag. As it was, he could only wrap his shaking legs around Steve and hang on, bracing himself with one hand on the glass box behind him.

Steve wriggled his hips a little. Between his legs, Sam could feel the hot, heavy weight of Steve’s cock, trapped in its protective cup, but Steve nuzzled Sam’s shoulder and kissed his neck with no urgency, no sense of the anger and frustration that had existed a moment before.

“When we get home,” Steve mumbled into Sam’s skin. He didn’t go on, and he didn’t have to; it was just an open-ended promise.

Sam hummed in agreement, since he didn’t think he had any words left in him, but, as Steve set him down and took off his gloves to wipe his hand on some nearby rags, Sam started to chuckle.

“So, just in general?” he asked, zipping up his pants.

Steve turned. “What’s that?”

“You said you’re sick of New Jersey. You mean being here today, or is it just the fact that it exists in general?”

“Both,” said Steve. He picked up the gun Sam had been carrying and tucked it into the holster on his thigh, then grabbed Sam’s communicator and handed it back. “More so just today, though. I have better things to do on a Sunday morning than fight robots in fucking New Jersey.”

“Jersey’s not so bad,” the bad guy protested feebly from inside the glass case.

“If I were you, I’d shut the hell up,” Sam told him and bent to collect Steve’s shield. “Here,” he said, extending it to him.

But Steve shook his head. “Keep it. It suits you.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest — or at least to call Steve out for making an incorrect _Star Wars_ reference (because he’d had this argument with Steve Crashed-The-Plane Rogers before, and if one of them had to be Poe...) — but then the door to the alley banged open, and there were footsteps crossing the main room.

“In here, guys,” Steve called.

Rhodey entered first, looking just as competent in a grey polo shirt as he did in his armor. He was flanked by Wanda and Vision. Natasha was nowhere in sight, which meant she was nearby.

“Falcon. Cap,” Rhodey said, lowering his gun and tucking it away. “Everything all right?”

Steve briefed him on the situation — “So, what, me and Sam aren’t Avengers?” — while Wanda magicked the makeshift jail cell and floated it towards the door.

“That’s hot,” Professor Ass Hat declared, right before the case spun in mid-air and he hit the glass wall with a thump.

“So sorry,” Wanda apologized sweetly.

“Captain,” said Vision all of the sudden. “There is moisture on your pants and shirt. Are you injured?”

“He’s fine,” Sam replied as Steve went a little red, and Natasha snickered in Sam’s ear. “Come with me, Vision, I want to see what you make of Robo Cap.”

“I finally got through to Tony in Tokyo,” Rhodey explained, as they followed Wanda outside. “He says this guy worked for Stark Tech until about six months ago, when he was caught stealing equipment and trying to sell it online. His name’s Joseph Tinkle.”

Sam snorted. “No wonder he thought Professor Labyrinth was a better name.”

“Professor what now?” Rhodey repeated. “What the hell kind of supervillain name is that?”

“That’s what I said,” Sam agreed.

“Mr. Stark has informed me that Professor Labyrinth was Mr. Tinkle’s internet username,” Vision put in helpfully. “Perhaps he thought it had a certain... ring.”

“Well, maybe they’ll call him that in prison,” Steve said. He frowned at the headless robot lying at his feet. “This is just plain weird.”

Natasha dropped down from a fire escape to join them in the alley. “I don’t know, it could be fun. If he’s anatomically correct,” she added, winking at Sam.

Wanda let the glass case fall to the pavement with a thud. “Why would that matter?” she asked.

“Well, you see,” Vision began.

“Nope,” Steve interrupted. “We are not having this conversation.”

“It is pretty twenty-first century for such an old-fashioned fella,” Natasha agreed with a smirk.

Steve narrowed his eyes at her, but Sam thought he looked more thoughtful than angry.

“Gives me the heebie-jeebies,” he muttered after a minute. “Natasha, call Hill, get this nogoodnik professor on the first train to the big house. Rhodey, see if Stark wants to be anything more than a Monday morning quarterback. Maybe he can get rid of this robot for us or k-ball it.”

“Uh,” said Rhodey, which, in Sam’s opinion, summed up what all of them were thinking.

“I’m going to make tracks,” Steve went on. “Got to get my ginchy fox back to the Big Apple. Come on, doll,” he added to Sam, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly upwards in the only sign that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“You are such a troll,” Sam told him in a low voice, as they walked away from the Avengers, and Vision took on the task of translating whatever the hell Steve had just told them to do. “I bet my entire life savings you never even talked that way in the 40s.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Steve replied easily, slinging his arm around Sam’s waist. “No one did. But I found this great website the other night....”


End file.
